


the fouled compass

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Annihilation (2018 Garland)
Genre: Cancer, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: Higher-ups than you seem to take the new plan as an omen instead of the last-ditch of all their opportunities. Men watching their world eaten and swallowed. Imagine, admitting that they might not have it right. Imagine, sending you.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	the fouled compass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).



> For Gloss, with the most love.
> 
> I really tried to make this more queer.

You've been dying for months now, watching the signals of your body misfire, the codes slowly degrade. It's funny. You've been here for all of the expeditions and only now thought to walk yourself into the end. Have you been holding out some kind of hope, that a team will come back with data, will come back at all, and that the world will change? It's hard to say. 

Lena appears with the first sign. Is it strange how little your outlook changes? Radek, Sheppard, and Thorensen don't bother to feign enthusiasm, but you notice a glint in their eyes that you haven't seen in your own. How long has it been? 

Higher-ups than you seem to take the new plan as an omen instead of the last-ditch of all their opportunities. Men watching their world eaten and swallowed. Imagine, admitting that they might not have it right. Imagine, sending you.

Three steps in. 

You wake with the sun in your eyes, and the smell of plants thick around the camp. Wet, steaming, vegetation. Acrid. A greenhouse, but bleeding. Your joints are sore like you've walked for hours, but your joints are unreliable narrators these days. Hair is slick against your forehead, so you push it back. 

"Hey," you say, hoarse and sore. Then, "Hey," louder, clearer this time. 

There's an answer from a few yards away, Sheppard, you think. 

Sometime, somehow, you've unrolled your bed and laid in it. You re-roll it, prepare for a trek. 

Your comms don't work, but then, you weren't expecting them to.

Another day, hour, a cycle of light. It's funny. The air will be buzzing, and then silent. You are buzzing, unable to sleep. Your rifle has been dismantled, cleaned, rebuilt. Your hands keep seeing something. You click your comms, smile grimly when not even an empty static replies. You click your comms again. 

A glowing heat has started up inside of you, pulsing and radiating. You sweat through your clothing, but your cheek is still cool to the touch.

Pacing will have to do. Perimeter, scanning for abnormalities. You laugh, a sharp barking noise. Sheppard stirs but settles. In another corner, Radek spoons Thorensen through their bedding. Their fingers tangled up, together. Shadows move with each of your steps, and it almost looks like a single vine strand is weaving them together. Lena's eyes flash in the shifting light and catch yours, awake and buzzing.

You wonder if they know they're dying, too. 

The air smells like blood.

When you do sleep, you remember. 

Months ago, you sat in a room of men and hypothesized that The Shimmer wanted something. Wanted you, wanted earth. A life, like theirs, that was driven to consume. To rise.

"Don't be fools," you remember saying. "It doesn't want a damn thing."


End file.
